


Mockingbird

by Pollydoodles



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6167860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollydoodles/pseuds/Pollydoodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fury, believing the world faces a threat from Asgard, decides to try to enlist The Mockingbird, a notorious escape artist, confidence trickster and thief. What he gets is not exactly what he bargained for, and the threat they face is bigger than any might have guessed. Romance, adventure & Asgard, with all that could entail. You ready?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

The shadows were deep and unforgiving; a man could get lost in them. Exactly the way he liked it. Exactly what he wanted – needed – tonight. That the night itself was troubled and on the edge of a storm only helped his purpose. People tended to stay indoors during a storm, tended to shut the curtains, bolt the doors and pay less attention. Footsteps, his footsteps, were all but silent as he moved closer to the door. He hummed under his breath as he moved, cat-like in the darkness.

The museum was silent, save from the slight padding of his muted feet as he weaved his way carefully through the cases. Ever cautious not to touch the glass, he slipped in and out of the gloom between the exhibits. He knew roughly where he might find his target, had at least some inkling but he still had a sense of cat and mouse. He assumed, as usual, he would be the cat.

"And if that mockingbird don't sing-" He broke off, smiling to himself. "Well, that's not an option."

With that, he caught a movement, the barest hint that most humans would miss, in the gloom, stepped forward smartly and loosed an arrow drawn from the quiver strapped to his back. It thunked into the wall opposite, inches from his target, which whipped around at the noise only to find that he had followed.

Wide blue eyes matched his, and he registered a cloud of dark hair framing a small face, the young girl trembled as the arrow still quivered in the wall beside her. Thick-rimmed glasses, white shirt and tartan skirt shivered under his steady gaze, a name badge pinned haphazardly to her chest shouted to him in bright blue lettering that her name was Sarah and she was happy to assist. She was small, and looked utterly petrified.

He stuttered out an apology as he backed away. She raised a hand to her glasses, pulling them away from her face. "Ca-can I help you, sir?" She managed, slow Southern vowels spilling from her lips, still staring at him as though he were about to kill her. Which, in fairness, he had been fully prepared to carry out just moments before.

He stepped back, dropping his bow by his side and running a hand through his hair with the other. She was still backed against the wall, afraid to move, clutching at her glasses with both hands at her chest. "Uh no, no miss – my apologies." He reverted to stock civilian interaction training. "I didn't mean to startle you, we've been called to check out the building and ensure that there are no irregularities." He pasted an all-American good cop smile across his face to smooth the words.

She breathed out as he finished, he realized that she had been holding it for some time – waiting, he assumed, either for assurance or action. It was the only movement she seemed prepared to make, despite his explanation. She blinked, slowly, and moved her glasses back to her face. She darted a glance briefly at the arrow, embedded in the wall to her right. He jerked forward – she breathed in sharply as his face passed by hers, he almost paused - and wrenched it back out.

"Uh, thank you for your co-operation, miss." He tipped the arrow towards her in a show of deference, inclining his head slightly as he did so. She made no reply, nervously tugging at the end of her shirt and dropping her gaze to the floor. He took that as his cue to back away and leave. When he looked back, just seconds later, the girl had vanished.

His earpiece crackled and spat into his ear. "Barton," It barked, piercing into the silence. "Is the target secure?"

"Negative, sir." He muttered, scanning the corridor as he did so. "False alarm."

"False alarm?" The ear piece spluttered. "In what capacity?"

"Civilian." He answered, passing by the alarm system control panel.

"What civilian would be in this building at this time of night?"

"Sir-" He broke off. The alarm system was disabled. The alarm system was disabled.

"Barton!" The deep booming from the earpiece affected him not, he broke into a sprint, bow at the ready and that horrible voice banging on the front of his mind, berating him for being so, so, stupid.

He checked rooms as he ran, allowing his superior sight to work as it should have done earlier. Barely stopping, scanning, moving on. Room after room after room until-

"That's it, princess. Just turn around. Slowly." He hadn't noticed any weaponry about her person earlier but then again, he'd clearly seen what she wanted him to see at the time. The slight figure in front of him paused, shrugged and turned about to face him, spinning on her heel.

"Princess, is it now?" She said playfully, and he realized that she'd even faked the accent. British, he guessed. London, most likely. Well-spoken, from what he knew of the place.

"You're a long way from home, sweetheart." He said levelly, prepared for anything she might – literally – throw at him. He stared at her, taking in as much as he could this time. She was small, barely stacking 5'2". Slight; well, she'd need to be, in her line of work. Dark hair, blue eyes, the ghost of a smile playing around pink lips and one arched eyebrow as she gazed back at him.

"Home is where your rump rests." She said lightly, and took a step forward. Wrong move, sweetheart. The arrow tip flashed up faster than even he'd really expected, the point resting neatly inches from her forehead. "Nice bow," she breathed, making the wise decision not to move any closer. Or indeed, at all.

"Be nicer not to use it." He dead panned. "Be nicer still if you'd come with me quietly, little lady."

"Little. Lady." She echoed, and seemed to be trying not to laugh. "Hey, why not? Be easier all 'round, huh."

Why so simple? His eyes narrowed. He did not lower the bow. "And you are playing what game, exactly?"

At this, she did actually laugh out loud. "No pleasing some people, is there?"

"You're not what I was expecting."

"And you were expecting, what, exactly?"

He stayed resolutely silent.

Her lips formed a perfect, pink, 'o' as she breathed out, knowingly. "Not a man, you mean." It wasn't a question.

He had the feeling he was somehow having the tables turned on him, he wasn't sure how and, more disconcertingly, he didn't mind.

She inched closer; he didn't drop the bow but made no other move. Serious blue eyes fixed upon his own, and she reached up to his wrist – laying her fingers slowly one by one against his skin. There was a flash of silver in the dark, a sharp snapping sound and she stepped back, ruefully.

"You move quickly for a first date, most men I know don't crack out the handcuffs until at least the third." She tipped her head to one side, regarding both him and the addition to her slim wrist.

"Let's go, princess." He tugged her arm, firmly but ultimately gently. No sense causing a scene if it could be avoided. For whatever reason – and he didn't trust it, whatever it might turn out to be – she seemed willing to come quietly and that was good enough for his purposes at that moment.

"Are you sure I don't have the right to an attorney? Or silence? What is it you boys usually say?" She grinned up at him, seemingly unbothered by her current predicament. He noted that. She'd almost escaped him once. This one was smart, and smart usually meant dangerous. Sometimes it meant useful. Time would have to tell.

"That would be the police, sweetheart." He walked her smartly towards the side entrance; backup were waiting alongside the museum in one of the loading bays. It would be easy enough to bundle her into the van if she had differing plans once outside. He'd learned not to underestimate small women, though. Lord knows Romanoff had taught him that lesson squarely.

For the first time, she looked as though she wasn't in control of the conversation. Her face snapped up to his, just about managing to school her expression into something akin to nonchalance as her eyes met his. Anyone else would probably have missed the flash of almost fear in them. "If you're not the police, then who the hell are you?"

"I'm from the Strategic Homeland, Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been a week.
> 
> A week of repeated interrogation, a week of smiles and falsities, a week of absolutely nothing to show for the operation. The girl seemed quite happy to go round after round with whoever Fury wanted to throw at her, talking a great deal but ultimately saying nothing.

It had been a week.

A week of repeated interrogation, a week of smiles and falsities, a week of absolutely nothing to show for the operation. The girl seemed quite happy to go round after round with whoever Fury wanted to throw at her, talking a great deal but ultimately saying nothing.

What she had done, however, was relieve his staff of pens, phones, watches, wallets and, on one occasion, freedom. Even Barton had to smile when they played the tapes back – exasperated no doubt at the word play and evasive tactics, Agent 12 had leaned forward suddenly across the table towards the girl, which turned out to be a bad move on his part.

Standard show of strength, standard interrogation technique designed to intimidate. She'd pulled back simultaneously and, somehow, Agent 12 had ended up handcuffed to the table with the girl flattened against the one way mirror. Laughing.

Fury was teetering on the edge of declaring it all a mistake, and handing her international ass to the Brits. He doubted very much there was anything they'd be able to do with her; he was confident that they still had her incarcerated was due in part to the hefty reinforcements S.H.I.E.L.D. had as necessity and in no smaller part to her own curiosity.

He reset the tapes again and again; almost spitting in anger as he watched – for the fifth time – the successful pick pocketing of one of his best agents.

She would be an asset, no doubt. He'd a list of her escapades; either declared or attributed, as long as his arm. She was smart, apparently extremely flexible and now half his staff could attest to her dexterity. All skills he very much found himself in need of right now. But how to get her onside?

He drummed his fingers absentmindedly on the table. Realistically, he had one card left in the pack on this one. But Romanoff, skilled as she was, currently resided half the world away on a different assignment.

"Sir?"

He looked up. Agent Barton stood in the doorway, bow strapped, as ever, to his back. He tipped his head to the younger man, silently motioning him into the room proper. He pressed fast forward, then back, then pause. The cameras just about picked up the moment her deft little fingers nipped into Hill's pocket to relieve her of the phone she kept there.

He slammed his hand down on the table, exasperated by it all. Here was the perfect set of skills, here was exactly what he needed right now – and surely would in the future – and yet, he had no idea how to get at it. He was slightly concerned he might be going after another Stark. He really didn't need another one of those.

"Can I try, sir?"

He'd forgotten Barton was even there.

"I might be able to get through." The archer continued. "After all, Natasha …" He trailed off. He'd gone off book for that one, but overall it had worked out in the end. Slightly sticky at the start, but you can't have everything, he reasoned. And this one, as clever as she might be, was no Natasha.

Fury raised both hands, palms out. "At this point, I'd be happy to get Banner in and see his friend wipe the grin off her face."

"I don't think that'll be necessary, sir."

"Perhaps not, but it would sure ease my mental state right now." Fury replied. "Go on, Barton. Do your worst."

She looked up at the door opened. Said nothing. Her eyes followed him across the room as he reached up to the CCTV and deftly pulled the cable from the back of it. The red light abruptly stopped blinking.

He turned back towards her, taking in her small form as she gazed back at him. Not exactly defiantly, but there was a certain tilt to her head that didn't suggest full co-operation would be forthcoming. He sighed, pulled the free chair back from the other side of the table and flung himself into it.

"You remember me?" He asked quietly.

"A girl rarely forgets the man who handcuffs her." She replied glibly. "Or one certainly shouldn't, at least." He could feel her eyes on him, knew without doubt she was drinking in as much as she could – assessing, weighing, working out what she could get away with. He wasn't sure how far he could let her go and still stay in control. He changed the subject.

"You know why we're here? Why we want you?" He grabbed the water jug and poured a glass. He paused, then pushed it over to the girl. She regarded it with a certain amount of suspicion. He shrugged and poured himself one, downing it in seconds.

"Strangely, no one from the secret government organization has been overly communicative on that front." She replied with a certain amount of sarcasm and reached out tentatively to pull the glass closer to herself, still not taking a drink.

"Cut the hostility."

"Your organization has kept me here, against my will, for a week – without given reason."

He put his elbows on the table and stared across at her. "You were about to rob a museum before I took you in."

"I really don't think you have any grounds to prove that, do you?" She grinned back at him, knowing full well they'd been unable to find anything of value on her person or, indeed, nothing specifically not belonging to her.

"You don't tend to find many innocent parties in the Smithsonian after hours, sweetheart."

"Back on friendly terms, are we?" She leaned across the table towards him, and he found the hairs on his arms start to raise as she did so. The handcuffs, still firmly – he hoped – around her wrists, clanked against the dark oak table as she rested her hands in front of her. She almost looked innocent. He slapped himself mentally.

"That depends." He answered, smoothly.

She raised an eyebrow. "On what?"

"On you."

"Really." She breathed, eyes on him. "How about you just enlighten me as to what it is your Strategically Placed Homeland Bureau of Illegal Interrogation wants and then we can go from there?" She raised both hands up as if to say, how about it?

"Okay." She looked mildly surprised at his reaction. He reached behind him and grabbed a brown dossier folder from the shelf, flipped it open and began reading aloud.

"Roberta 'Bobbi' Morse; born in England, London to be precise, the East End to be even more precise."

She rolled her eyes. "And? It's clearly not news to you and, I can assure you, it's not news to me either."

"Born 1985 to parents unknown," he continued as though she hadn't spoken. "Educated at the Benedictine Convent School for Girls, disappeared from both home and school at age 17. Reappeared in Budapest as assistant to magician 'The Great Ka-Zar', aged 20. Disappeared again aged 21 and has not been heard of since."

He snapped the dossier shut and continued. "The Mockingbird robberies have both scandalized and enthralled the world, leading newspapers to speculate that the Mockingbird moniker must be applied to a whole team of thieves working in partnership. But that's not true, is it Bobbi?"

She regarded him for a moment. "You didn't know all that in the museum – you weren't expecting me." It wasn't so much a question as a statement, but he answered it anyway.

"We've had a week to work on filling in the blanks." He paused, opening the dossier once more. The intelligence operatives had located a school photo of the girl, and she stared back at him from the page shyly. The uniform made her look absurdly young. He shut it again and looked up at the older Bobbi Morse. "You weren't what we were expecting, but you are what we need."

She laughed. "And what would that be?"

"A thief, an escape artist, a clever mind and a willingness to serve the country."

"You forgot yourself; this isn't my country." She reminded him sharply, but there was a glimmer of interest in her light blue eyes as she regarded him across the table. "Why would I want to have anything to do with it?"

"You want the challenge." He answered. "I've read the newspaper reports, I've seen the coverage – I've seen the places you've broken into and the things you've stolen – they're barely what you'd call valuable sometimes. You just want to beat something smart, you want to prove you're better than the system, you want to win."

In his passion, he'd leaned across the table and was almost face to face with the girl, she'd leaned forward also. Eye to eye they gazed at each other, her eyes slightly narrowed. "So what's your challenge, then?" She whispered.

He opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by the door crashing open and bouncing against the wall, hinges groaning under the stress of being forced open so brutally. A dark-haired man in an expensive suit stood, visibly fuming, in the doorway. He looked down at Bobbi over his sunglasses, completely ignoring Barton.

"So this is the kid that broke in Stark Tower, huh?"


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This, this –" Stark was momentarily lost for words in his anger. "Delinquent," – he paused for effect – "broke into my tower and you want to recruit her?" Sunglasses discarded, suit jacket thrown haphazardly across the back of Fury's chair, the man was close to meltdown. Fury was silently thankful that Morse had not thought it clever to break into Banner's lab at any point. At least that he knew of.
> 
> "Mister Stark," He said warningly. "How I run my agency is hardly any of your business."

"This, this –" Stark was momentarily lost for words in his anger. "Delinquent," – he paused for effect – "broke into my tower and you want to recruit her?" Sunglasses discarded, suit jacket thrown haphazardly across the back of Fury's chair, the man was close to meltdown. Fury was silently thankful that Morse had not thought it clever to break into Banner's lab at any point. At least that he knew of.

"Mister Stark," He said warningly. "How I run my agency is hardly any of your business."

"You won't be saying that when she steals government secrets, Fury." Stark retorted, flinging himself into Fury's chair and pushing his sunglasses back onto his face. His legs crossed at the ankle and resting on the desk, he leaned back and regarded Fury. He was riled and he was going to make damn well sure Fury was, too.

"You'd be the expert on that subject, Tony." The older man replied pointedly. "And apparently I have to put up with your presence."

"Caustic." Stark replied, now leaning to his left and attempting to open the – locked – drawers. Undeterred, he reached inside his suit jacket and retrieved a thin metal jimmy. Fury rolled his eyes. The only thing in the drawer worth having was his lunch, but he wasn't about to tell Stark. Let him focus on something else for a minute.

"Why do you have a problem with that eventuality, Tony?" Fury poured himself a whiskey. It was still only eleven-thirty in the morning but he felt that, all things considered, he'd earned it. He did not offer any to Stark. "You don't believe in S.H.I.E.L.D., you don't believe in authority, you seem to think rules were purpose made for you to break them – why, frankly I'd expect you to be her champion."

The dark haired man was now hanging dangerously out of the chair, tongue to one side as he fiddled with the lock on the drawer. "I'm really not sure why I'm having to repeat myself, Fury. She. Broke. In. to. My. Tower." He whistled as the lock finally ceded to his ministrations and popped open. He sat up momentarily, pointing the jimmy at Fury as he spoke. "Do you have any idea what it's like to have someone poking around in your private space?"

"I have literally no idea." He replied drily. "Please, do enlighten me."

Stark caught the look thrown his way as he pocketed the apparatus. "You know me. It's different." With that, he bounced up, grabbing his jacket as he did so. As he passed Fury on his way to the door, he paused and pointed a finger at the other man, glaring over his sunglasses as he did so. "If you're not going to listen to reason, I won't be held responsible for the fallout. And I will be standing at the back proclaiming loudly to all who will listen and several who will be trying their damnedest not to that I told you so."

"It's because she bested your system, isn't it?"

Stark paused at the door, his back to Fury. He spun on his heel to face the Director. His jaw was clenched. "JARVIS is unbeatable. It shouldn't have happened."

"So your actual problem is that she showed up your security?" Fury barked out a laugh. "Stark, if I were you, I'd be getting her on your staff, not storming in here shouting the odds."

"It was a momentary glitch which has since been fixed." He'd been up half the night, Pepper had gone to bed highly irritated with his single-mindedness but, yes, eventually the loophole in the system had been located and – more importantly – eradicated. JARVIS had been updated to the strongest security setting he could devise.

"In fact – how did you know we'd gone after her, Tony?" Fury asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

"Rogers." Stark replied cheerfully. "How he was a top-secret soldier, I'll never know. Can't keep stuff to himself to save his life." He grinned up at Fury nonchalantly.

Which meant it was far more likely that Stark had hacked the servers to get at what he wanted and found something else in its stead. Fury did a quick mental check on the other projects currently on-going. Nothing particularly sensitive that he could think of, at least insofar as Stark was concerned. Thank god there hadn't been an update on the file in regards to-

"So when are we expecting Triple-H to arrive, anyway?"

Fury groaned inwardly.

"You've pissed off people in high places, kid." Barton chewed gum and inspected his hands as he waited patiently for Bobbi to finish up in the bathroom, one foot resting behind him against the door. After Stark's outburst, Fury had pulled the agitated billionaire out of the interview room and sent Barton to get the girl washed up. It might have been the best thing to happen for her. Fury put up with Stark for what he called – often, Barton noticed, through gritted teeth - the greater good but the Director could be a contrary man and the theatrics could push him over to the other side.

"It's part of my unique skill set," she replied, over the gushing water. "Is that something you lot need?"

He bit back a laugh and stayed silent. He could smell the lavender soap, even through the door. It was … nice. He didn't make a habit of hanging around bathrooms whilst women were showering inside but he'd smelt the soap Natasha used before. Carbolic. Simple, functional, got the job done with as little amount of fuss possible. Much like Natasha herself, actually.

The shower stopped, and he could hear wet footprints pad cautiously across the tiled floor. A beat passed and then – "What the hell is this?" He chuckled, assuming the answer. The door flew back, and him with it. He caught himself and turned to face her.

She had a towel thrown around herself somewhat haphazardly, hitched awkwardly and slightly dangerously on one lower end as the other side was clutched tightly in hand. Wet hair plastered around her face and shoulders dripped on the corridor carpet. His eyes tried to betray him but she gave him little option as she thrust something dark into his face.

"What's this?" She demanded, waving it enthusiastically in front of him.

"Standard issue S.H.I.E.L.D. suit," he replied, taking a half-step back.

"I'm not wearing this," she retorted. "Have you seen it? What sort of-"

"It's that suit or your birthday suit, sweetheart." He cut in. "It's all we have."

Her lips snapped shut and she stared at him. "This is not normal." She declared, turning on her heel and shutting the door smartly. He grinned and shook his head, resuming his previous position. Tipped his head to the Captain as he passed by, presumably heading for the briefing room, considering idly as he did so what Rogers would make of Bobbi.

He'd not be too convinced by the addition of a known and self-declared thief, that's for sure. Like Stark said all too often, Rogers wasn't really like the rest of them. Not so much because he was out of time, but because he had a strict set of morals that he lived by, almost without question. The others, himself included, had a more flexible view of the world.

The door swung back again, slightly more demurely this time. He glanced behind him, she was wearing the suit. Was there a touch of regret that she'd not opted for defiance on this one? He shoved that thought very firmly away, down past unimportant thoughts like tomorrow's shopping requirements and deliberately filed things like that one time in Moscow. Not gonna help, Barton.

Still – and he allowed himself this one, fleeting, acknowledgement – this option wasn't exactly bad.

Form fitting dark lycra, neck to ankle to wrist. Built to withstand most temperatures, fit most abilities – and some of the newer additions to the team had really tested the outfitters, but they'd risen to the challenge where they could – offered at least some protection against bullets. Overall, it was a practical piece of kit. It wasn't specifically that thought that ran through his mind as he regarded her.

She held her wrists out to him, thrusting them together and looking up at him somewhat petulantly from under eyelashes that still had droplets of water clinging to them. He raised an eyebrow at her in confusion.

"Handcuffs?" She questioned. "Is this not our thing?"

He buried that one, too. Right past Budapest. "Uh, no - we're good." He failed to mention that her particular suit also featured a built in tracking device, so, coupled with her proven ability to escape from handcuffs, they were relatively redundant as an option.

She looked somewhat suspicious and he supposed he couldn't exactly blame her, but fell in line beside him as he moved off down the corridor. He watched her from the corner of his eye, she was clearly taking in everything they walked past. Luckily, there wasn't much to see on this level. Some rooms, mostly empty, the odd office with intelligence analysts diligently working to locate possible threats, potential allies. And then-

"Hey, Hawk." A brunette in glasses, bobble hat and clutching steaming coffee appeared in vision.

"Oh, uh, hey Darcy." He stopped, politely, Bobbi drawing to a halt beside him. She was looking at Darcy with unveiled curiosity. He couldn't blame her. He'd only met Darcy officially a few times, but she was a bit – well. A bit Darcy.

Presumably she'd be here today with Dr. Foster ahead of the meeting. She wasn't exactly S.H.I.E.L.D. material, and she didn't exactly fit in – well, anywhere. But she was part of Foster's team and as the doctor resolutely refused to leave Darcy behind.

"Why doesn't she have to wear the suit?" Bobbi asked pointedly. He nodded to Darcy who looked taken aback, grabbed Bobbi's arm and steered her around the confused looking assistant.

"She's not really part of S.H.I. ." He said, firmly, pushing her into a faster pace.

"I don't recall having signed anything binding myself." She muttered, but allowed him to pull her along.

Fury sat, pensive, at the head of the table. Stark to his left, fiddling with his phone. Rogers on his right, back ramrod straight and awaiting further instruction. The two of them were exhausting for entirely different reasons. He massaged his forehead and wondered whether he would judge himself too harshly on sinking a second whiskey before 1pm.

The door opened, cautiously, and Barton's head appeared from behind it. Fury motioned him in. Morse followed after and he reach a hand to Stark's elbow, silently warning him not to cause trouble. Rogers shot up and pulled out the chair next to himself for the girl. She threw a questioning look over her shoulder at Barton, who shrugged. She settled herself in the chair, keeping her eyes on Rogers.

"So, we've got Encino Man, Katniss and the Pink Panther, who else are we waiting on?" Stark asked, not looking up from his phone. Fury bit back an answer, reminding himself that Stark thrived on pushing buttons and riling other people. Rogers stared resolutely ahead, apparently having come to the conclusion that he would never understand Tony's references and electing not to bother trying.

"One more." Fury relied.

The door opened and a serious looking brunette appeared.

"Two more." He amended. "Doctor Foster, please take a seat." He gestured to empty chair next to Stark. "Is he?"

"It's hard to tell, exactly, but the readings are going way up so I would expect soon." She replied, confidently, and waved a small device at him. It had wires and lights and looked exceedingly home-made.

Bobbi looked around herself. She didn't understand these people, had no idea why a doctor would be involved, who was supposed to be arriving. She supposed it was her own fault for taking up the challenge on the Smithsonian, but then again, she knew she would never have been able to turn it down. Much like this, really. Confusing as it all was, shrouded in secrecy and red tape, she presumed that, at some point, they'd have to tell her what it was they wanted. Given the company; she was confident to stake that it wouldn't be straight forward.

And oh but did that thought give her a tingle.

Agent Barton had not been incorrect in his assessment on her motivation, although she thought it was more the product of a lucky guess than a skilled interviewer. She'd seen enough of them, over the years – not too many, it was always best to cover your tracks properly – but he didn't fit the bill. She wasn't sure what fit him, actually. She'd had him pegged as an over-zealous security detail in the museum but then he had eventually seen through the little girl lost routine.

Regular security didn't operate high enough on the thinking scale to see past that, usually. Then there was the bow, that was … different. Very different. She sneaked a glance sideways at him, and found him, poker faced but not sitting anywhere near as rigidly in his seat as the other guy. Somewhat of an enigma. She'd have to decide whether it was worth trying to figure him out.

Stark started tapping erratically on the table with a pencil. Purposefully without a specific rhythm, looking to wind the tension in the room even higher than it was already. Thump, thwack, ping as the metal casing at the top of the pencil glanced off the table instead of the wooden shaft.

Fury's head thumped in sympathy. Barton cracked his knuckles, glancing over the table pointedly as he did so. Thump, thwack, TWANG. He'd found a rubber band in his pocket as well. Doctor Foster clenched her jaw as the pencil continued to tap next to her. Thump, thwack, ding. He'd shot a ball bearing - retrieved from the very bottom of his jacket pocket, alongside some fluff and a months-old boiled sweet – across the table at speed towards Rogers, glancing off his water glass before the Captain had a chance to grab it.

Slurp. He'd unwrapped the sweet, ancient paper still stuck to it in parts, and popped it in his mouth. Smiling. And slurping. And tapping. Foster was staring at him, unable to fathom how such an intelligent man could possibly be so juvenile. Slurp. Thump. Twang. The rubber band was back. Fury's eye twitched.

DING! Rogers and Barton both shot up out of their seats and Fury reached across the table to Stark, who laughed, hands up. "It's not him, it's me," Foster said excitedly, waving the handheld device as it buzzed and spat and DINGED loudly again. She brought it to her nose, staring down at it and fiddling knobs, adjusting, prodding –

"Jane?"

A deep voice cut through the room, and a last, slightly feeble, ding faded away. The scientist finally looked up from it and took in the beast of a man stood in the doorway. She dropped the device and ran to him, throwing her arms around him – in so far as she could. He laughed, a rumbling sound, as he drew her in with one immense arm. Bending his head to the top of hers, he dropped a gentle kiss to her hair, then looked up at the rest of the room.

"So Fury, who is it that will be helping me break into Asgard?"


	4. Chapter Four

The room erupted. 

“Space? Fury, I am not going into space. There is no way on-“  
“Sir, I really must protest. Surely a city such as Asgard cannot be breached-“  
“Thor, you said that this was a simple mission?”  
“Jane, my Jane. I don’t believe I ever said the word simple, I merely-“  
“Fury, you gonna send Mr. Green & Nasty up there to bust open the golden doors or something?”

“He doesn’t mean any of you, he means me.”

Her voice was quiet and the statement simple, yet cut through the noise like a knife. Fury swivelled his chair slightly to gaze upon the girl out of his one good eye. He nodded to her and she stared back at him, unwavering, eyes narrowed. 

“This is your play, Fury?” Stark cut into the conversation, mocking.   
“You want to send a kid?” Rogers added, incredulously. “Untested, untrained?”

“One. Not a child, thanks all the same.” Bobbi stood up, casting a glance at the Captain as she did so and gesturing to the more adult aspects of herself. Barton had to stifle a chuckle as the other man flushed slightly, regarding her in the form-fitting S.H.I.E.L.D. suit as he most likely hadn’t even registered beforehand.

“Two. If you’re looking for someone trained in breaking and entering, well-“ 

She chuckled, shaking her head slightly. “If any of you in this building have been inside the strong room of the Moscow Kremlin and back out again without an armed escort either side then by all means, I have something to learn here.” The room fell silent and Bobbi crossed her arms, glancing at each face in turn as if in askance. Rogers looked away and Barton felt sure he’d just realised her for what she was. 

“Well, I have.” Stated a quiet voice from the doorway. Heads turned towards it. There stood a petite red head with almond shaped eyes, deceptively demure in jeans and hooded shirt. “Should I begin lessons now or later?” She followed up, head dropped to one side, voice playful but unmistakeably edged with steel. 

“Tasha.” Barton leapt to his feet and pulled the chair next to him aside for her. Bobbi glanced at him, then at the newcomer, unsure on the development. 

“Clint.” The red-head smiled up at him warmly and took a seat, not before laying a hand lightly on his wrist. The two exchanged a look which held a world’s worth of unspoken words. 

“Clearly my presence is unrequired.” Bobbi laughed, breaking the silence. She turned to the director. “And with that, may I gladly take your leave?” She tipped a non-existent hat in Fury’s direction. “Don’t worry about showing me out, I memorised it all on the way in.” She winked at him slyly, span on her heel and found herself facing Barton’s chest. The thought flashed across her mind, unbidden, that his reflexes really were extremely fast. 

“Why don’t you hear it out, sweetheart.” He said calmly, looking down at her. It wasn’t phrased as a question. 

“Are you going to stop me if I don’t?” She bit back at him, her blue eyes burning up into his as she spoke, chin set determinedly. 

Barton opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by a low laugh from behind him. “Kitten’s got claws, Clint.” The redhead – Tasha, was it? – said with amusement colouring her voice. Bobbi rolled her eyes and straightened her back, taking a half step back to distance herself from Barton. 

“Either you need me or you don’t. Stop playing games. I have a life to lead and, as far as I can see, it doesn’t interfere with yours.” Bobbi addressed them all, including the dark-haired female doctor who looked non-plussed at the whole situation as she clutched her electronic device in one hand and the arm of the enormous blond man at her side with the other. 

Barton stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and Bobbi once more. “Sir?” he looked to Fury at the head of the table. 

“Let her go, Agent Barton.” Fury said wearily. 

The younger man glanced at the director, then stepped aside. “Yes, sir.” If he cared at all that Bobbi didn’t give him a second glance as she brushed past him and out the door, his face didn’t show it. The door swung shut with a thud that sounded loud in the quiet room. 

“Uh, just two things on this one, to get my head straight.” Stark leaned forward across the table as he spoke, breaking the silence. “First, are we really breaking into Asgard?” This he addressed to the large man to his right whose armour glinted under the unforgivingly bright lighting. 

“Yes.” He answered. “Ideally.”

“Right, just so we’re all clear.” The businessman answered. He sat back comfortably in his chair and swivelled it slightly back and forth, tapping the pencil he’d found idly on the arm. 

“And the second?” The Captain asked.

“Hmm?” Stark barely looked up. 

“The second thing;” the blond answered impatiently. “You said you wanted to clear up two things, you only mentioned one?”

“Oh, yeah.” Tony paused for what he considered appropriate dramatic timing. “Well I just wondered if Fury was really going to let the world’s best thief walk right out of here on her own?” It was a small but assured victory to see the brief yet intense flash of panic wash over the director’s face before he tapped several no doubt urgent commands into his personal smartphone.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had the feeling she was being watched.

She had the feeling she was being watched. 

That prickling at the back of the neck, the indescribable feeling of not being entirely alone. She’d been expecting it, ever since she’d walked out the front door at S.H.I.E.L.D. She’d made sure to cover her tracks such as they were but it was evidently a much bigger organisation than she’d dealt with before. It didn’t pay to assume. 

She’d not want to admit it out loud but there was some small part of her rather hoping that they did manage to locate her after all. 

Bobbi padded cautiously across her apartment, careful to tread lightly on the wooden floorboards. Her bare feet made almost no noise. She paused by the window, breathing in deeply the slight breeze that ruffled the curtains. She caught the infinitesimal movement outside which assured her suspicions.

The girl allowed a slight smile to ghost across her face and flipped the sash upwards. 

“Oh look, S.H.I.E.L.D. has its own dry cleaning delivery service. Who would have thought it?” She said dryly as she stuck her head out of the window to the fire escape where Agent Barton was propped, one foot resting against the building, his arms folded across his broad chest. It was the first time she’d seen him in civilian clothes – t-shirt, over-shirt, sunglasses, jeans and chucks. She’d still bet heavily that he was armed despite his casual appearance. 

“As you can imagine, I’ve been wearing the suit around the place, doing the ironing, getting groceries and the like.” She continued blithely. “So it’s really rather a relief you’re here to collect it – I couldn’t quite be sure if it was dry clean only or if we might be able to get away with sticking it in the washer-dryer with regular non-bio.” She raised her eyebrows at the stoic form outside her window, loose strands of her dark hair pulling free in the breeze from the clip she’d hastily shoved in earlier.

He pushed his sunglasses more firmly up his nose and turned his head to look at her fully. “I’m not here in an official capacity.”

“Oh really, so in which capacity would you be here, then?” Bobbi tilted her head at him and rested her hands on the window frame, head and shoulders now fully out of the window. 

He paused, considering momentarily before answering her. “As a friend?”

She laughed and shook her head lightly. “You threatened me with an arrow, handcuffed me and then I was held captive for a week by a man who bears a startling resemblance to a pirate. That’s not generally considered friendly.” She paused, then continued. “In some circles I’ll grant you it could be construed as a date, but friendly? No.”

“As I’ve reminded you before, you were in the process of a robbery.” He grinned as he said it, removing the sunglasses and tucking them thoughtfully into a pocket. He moved towards the window until he was directly in front of Bobbi. Despite herself, she allowed a small smile back at him as she gazed up. 

“Would you like to take this opportunity to explain how you’re at my window, Agent Barton?” She arched an eyebrow as she looked up at him, seemingly unfazed by his nearness. 

“I find that that question is usually ‘why are you at my window’?” He said quietly, resting his right hand on the side of the window frame and leaning into the space towards her. 

“My goodness, how many girls’ windows do you appear at, Agent Barton?” Bobbi raised a hand to her heart as she asked him, widening her eyes in mock-shock at his words and slipping into her best Scarlett O’Hara-esque impression. 

He tilted his head to one side and said nothing. 

Bobbi tapped her fingers on the window frame before continuing. “As I’ve no doubt we both know - life is no fairy tale, so I already ruled out a modern re-enactment of Rapunzel.” She threw back at him, laughter dancing in her eyes as she said it. “My hair isn’t long enough and whilst I’m sure that you have many talents I sincerely doubt that ‘white knight’ is part of your repartee.”

“You’d be surprised.”

She inhaled sharply as he said it, the sincerity in his eyes taking her aback and killing the follow up line she had ready on her tongue. Collecting herself, she replied seriously. “I have a pretty good idea why you’re here, I’m just not entirely sure how you got here.”

“Suit’s got a homing device in it.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.” She countered, riling slightly. “That’s why it’s somewhere south of the Hudson after I flushed it last week. Miles from this apartment. Take two?” Bobbi took the opportunity this time to lean into his personal space, stretching her small frame up from the window ledge and towards Barton’s earnest face. 

“I’m good at finding people. C’mon, sweetheart, you gotta let a guy have some secrets.” His eyes twinkled at her and she narrowed hers in response. He bent his knees and dropped closer to her before continuing. “You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you?”

“About what?”  
“C’mon.”  
“Oh, you’re referring to your piratical overlord’s foolhardy mission to break into a mythological city in another world?” She laughed. He waited. 

“Okay, maybe a little.” She admitted. “I’m between-“ he looked at her and raised an eyebrow as she spoke. “Between jobs.” She finished, defiantly. 

“Show me?” He entreated.  
“Eager.” She breathed back, his face now just inches from her own. For a moment, she regarded him, considering. “Care for a coffee, Agent Barton?” 

“You can call me Clint, you know.” He mumbled, and immediately wondered why he’d said it. Then, catching up with the conversation – “Coffee?” She stepped back from the window and nodded into the apartment, inviting him in. One muscular arm either side of the window frame, he swung himself into the apartment and thudded on the floorboards. 

“Ease up, soldier.” She said. “Some of us have got neighbours, you know.” She turned on her heel and walked away from him towards the kitchen area. He followed cautiously. “Decaff or regular?” She asked, turning back to him expectantly, holding up a bag of each.

“Regular.” He said slowly, unsure whether he would in fact be getting coffee. 

“Good choice.” She poured out some beans into the coffee grinder and switched the machine on full pelt. She motioned him closer and threw open the cupboard doors above her head as he did so, hesitantly coming to a halt just behind her. His jaw dropped as he took in the mess of papers, blueprints, pins and string covering the inside of the doors. 

“Have you ever been in espionage?” He asked seriously, glancing from the coffee grinder to Bobbi and back again. Then he looked properly at the jumble of paperwork attached to the doors. “Those are … schematics?” He choked out into her ear over the furious rumbling of the coffee grinder.

“You’re no one without a plan, Stan.”   
“Well yeah but where did you get ‘em?”

She turned and looked up at him with a grin and imitated his accent. “C’mon, you gotta let a gal have some secrets. Sweetheart.” Part of his brain managed to register the cheeky throwback to his earlier comment but the rest of him was completely taken up by the detail in front of him, hammered haphazardly to the inside of two oak kitchen doors. 

“Star charts … ?”

“Naturally. Well, of course I’ve never been there but one would have to assume it’s not in existence on Earth. Ergo, star charts. Astrological planners.” She paused. “Children’s books.” Bobbi tapped a torn out page pinned precariously in the midst of the jumble, depicting both Thor & Loki on what Barton assumed to be the author’s vision of the so-called Rainbow Bridge. 

“Huh.” He answered absently, his mouth providing the noise more-so than his mind, one finger tracing one fraying red string to a nearly illegible biro comment.   
“Is there a problem?”

“No, I just …” He trailed off.   
“Assumed no one outside of a government organisation could do research?” Bobbi quipped, leaning her body into his slightly as she did so. The sudden closeness pulled him away from the notes before her jibe did. He looked down into her eyes which blinked back up at him, waiting for a response. 

“So your considered opinion is …?”  
“You cannot break into Asgard.”  
“That is not what I thought you were going to say.”

She smiled, a genuine full smile that lit up her features like the Rockefeller Christmas tree in December. “Disappointed? Don’t be. I said one cannot break into Asgard. No one would stop one walking in.”

He stared at her. “I’m not following.”

She tapped the bridge of her nose. “Okay, well, you and I don’t just walk into Asgard. For various and obvious reasons. But the big blond bloke clearly does, right? So … one appears to walk in but two actually do.”

Barton folded his arms. 

“Oh look, come here.” She stepped across him and stalked towards the bedroom, motioning him to follow her. He hesitated at the door. She paused and spun back to him, hearing his footsteps stop. “Oh really? Need I remind you that you’re the one with the handcuffs.” She said teasingly. He leaned against the doorframe, hands tucked under his armpits. 

She moved forward, then bent at the waist; all hips and cut off denims in his field of vision. “See, suitcase?” She picked up the case and twirled back to him with it, showing off the piece as though she were on QVC. Barton remained by the door, watching in silence. 

“Empty, yes?” She flapped the lid up and down at him, then set it on the floor and delicately flipped the lid completely open with her right foot so that it rested on the floorboards. She stepped into the main body of the case, took a breath and let her body collapse downwards. 

Barton leaned forward in shock and saw a pair of mischievous blue eyes looking back up from the case amongst a tangled but compact set of limbs. One of them winked and he swallowed away several interesting thoughts that were ultimately irrelevant to the mission. 

“Following?”  
“Following.” He answered, nodding. 

“Great. Did you want that coffee?”


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Risky, Barton. Very risky.”

“Risky, Barton. Very risky.” Fury tapped his coffee mug with a pencil against each word as he said it, looking pointedly at the agent from his one good eye. Barton stood impassively the other side of the desk, hands clasped behind his back, as the director took a sip. 

“I’m aware, sir.” 

“Not everyone is a Romanoff, Barton.” Fury leaned back in the big leather chair, raising an eyebrow as he spoke and pointing the end of the pencil towards the younger man. He drew his feet up to rest on the edge of the desk as he did so, one thick boot crossed over the other. 

“Aware of that too, sir.” 

Fury regarded him. He’d never once thought of Barton as a loose cannon and he wasn’t about to begin now. Every damn move the man made was thought out and planned ahead, even the off-piste ones. It was almost more dangerous to account for than someone like Stark, who might just take out a building he didn’t like the look of because he’d missed the first game of the season. 

At least Stark was predictable in his wildness. 

“And you believe she’s on side?” He questioned, searchingly. It didn’t go unnoticed that Barton hesitated slightly before answering. 

“If she’s not by the end of today, she’ll never be, sir.”

Bobbi felt uncomfortably as though she had been regressed back to her school days. Kitted out in running shorts and over-size shirt she watched unenthused as a mass of identikit S.H.I.E.L.D. agents tussled and fought in the enormous gym hall. 

“Feeling nervous?” 

She looked to her left and had to keep on looking up to meet the face of the animated blond man at her side. She sucked in a multitude of responses in the wake of what could only be reasonably described as genuine puppy dog eyes and realised she recognised him. 

“I met you before, didn’t I?” She questioned, arms wrapped around herself and returning her gaze back to the multitude of people fighting with varying degrees of success in front of her. 

“Sure did.” He nodded, and bounced on the balls of his feet twice. 

“You’re a little more – patriotic – today.” She observed, turning back to him.

He caught her eye at her words, looked down at his shirt which bore a large Captain America symbol across his chest and grinned back at her. “It’s uh, expected.” She raised her eyebrows in response. “I’m Steve. Steve Rogers.” He said, sticking one hand out towards Bobbi expectantly. She hesitated slightly, then shook it. 

“Bobbi Morse.” 

A voice that was not her own answered the Captain. Bobbi turned, startled, and found herself facing the petite red-head who had interrupted Fury’s secret meeting previously. “You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid.” She said frankly. “I don’t know your name.”

“You will.” The other woman gave Bobbi an appraising once over. “Follow me.” With that, she span and immediately marched away. Clearly this was a woman unused to being disobeyed. Bobbi looked back at Rogers who offered her a full, wide, smile. She sighed internally. Misgivings, she had a great many misgivings. 

“Did I miss the show?”

Barton half-turned to his right and creased his eyebrows in confusion as Stark, typically clad in Armani suit and sunglasses, wandered over to him, bag of popcorn in hand. The archer was stood in front of a large window which looked out onto the training room. His arms crossed over his black S.H.I.E.L.D. suit, he had been observing the progress of new recruits. 

“Show?”

Stark waved the hand not clutching the popcorn towards the window. “Yeah. I came to see Bling Ring against our own dear Natasha.” Barton fixed him with a narrow look and the billionaire laughed. 

“Should you even be here?” Barton said as he rolled his eyes and gazed back out the window, taking in the activity played out before him. Recruits jumped, spun, lunged and one poor bastard got laid out by a pretty decent strike to the solar plexus. 

“Now that’s what I’m talking about.” Stark winced in sympathy. “And yes, to answer your question, I should absolutely be here. There is no other place in the world right now where I should be more.” He punctuated his statement by throwing a handful of popcorn into his mouth and winking as he chewed it. 

“There are, Robin Hood,” he broke off at this point and gestured at Barton, mouthing that’s you as he did so, “two possible outcomes to this situation.” Another mouthful of popcorn was chewed and swallowed down before he continued. 

“Scenario A. I get to observe something that a lot of men all day around the world pay to see-“ he faltered slightly as he spun whilst speaking and caught sight of Agent Hill who was glaring at him from behind a computer terminal, “namely the sight of two women exercising their right as individuals to beat the crap out of each other the same way any two men would be able to do.” He pulled his free arm up into a fist by the side of his face. “Right on, sister.” 

Hill shot him a withering look and went back to the computer. Stark continued on his rotation back to face Barton. 

“And naturally I also support their right to do that in whatever outfit they feel most comfortable in. Sweats, cat suits, bikinis, jelly, mud.” He shrugged and grinned, leaning his weight forward to peer once more out of the window before chowing down on another handful of popcorn. 

“Mmmmm, this is good.” He said around it, shoving the bag towards Barton. “You want some?” The other man shook his head silently. Stark shrugged again and pulled the bag back to himself. 

“And the second scenario?” Barton asked, wondering if he actually wanted to hear what Stark had to say on the matter. 

“Scenario B is that I get to see Nat paste that kid.”

“What if the kid pastes Natasha?” A third voice questioned from behind them. 

“You know,” Stark said, chewing thoughtfully and without glancing around, “I can practically hear the Stars & Stripes before you even appear, Cap.” He finished, stuffing yet another handful of popcorn and thrusting the bag behind him towards the newcomer. “Do they pipe that stuff in subliminally through the air vents wherever you go or something?” 

Rogers ignored both the bag and the jibe as he moved up to Stark’s left in front of the window, Barton falling in on the right. Their attention was caught by a small pocket of activity just below them. 

“What level of self-defence would you say you currently have?” Romanoff asked, her voice tight and efficiently as she strapped her knuckles. Bobbi stared at her. 

“The kind where one doesn’t put oneself in situations where self-defence is required?” She offered. 

Romanoff looked up sharply, eyes on the younger girl, still wrapping her palm tightly. “An international thief who breaks into some of the world’s most dangerous and guarded places who doesn’t know how to fight?” Her voice was incredulous. 

“It may well be the secret underlying ingredient to the success of my operation.” Bobbi threw back. “I have a vested interest in not being caught in a difficult situation more than any other person in the same game.” She shrugged. “So far, it seems to be working for me.”

Romanoff shook her head. “That’s gonna change.” She finished wrapping her second hand then immediately stepped forward and aimed a spinning roundhouse kick at Bobbi’s head. The girl exhaled sharply and dropped into splits at the last possible moment she could do so safely. As it was, Romanoff’s foot connected with the clip loosely pinning Bobbi’s hair up – it span across the floor and skittered into the wall where it shattered into three pieces and lay forlornly on the ground. 

Bobbi looked at the clip, then back up at Agent Romanoff, her dark hair now tumbling in loose curls around her shoulders. The red-head offered her a hand. “It’s got to change.” She said quietly, and pulled Bobbi up. 

“That kid is not pasting Nat anytime soon.” Stark said dryly.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How’s it going, sweetheart?”

“How’s it going, sweetheart?”

Bobbi looked up at Agent Barton from her position on the floor. Her back pressed against the wall, arms hugged around her knees, she offered him a tired smile as her right hand snuck up to the back of her neck. 

“I have bruises in places I didn’t think could get bruised.” 

“Well that’s how you know you did a decent days work.” He raised an eyebrow and she rolled her eyes at him in response. 

“I have never been so knackered,” she sighed, still massaging the back of her neck, trying in vain to relieve the ache from having caught Romanoff’s heel once too many times. “And I once did the Parisian marathon.”

Barton was taken aback at her words and clearly his face belied his thoughts as a short laugh caught in her throat. “I should clarify. I mean 26 jobs in a day, not 26.2 miles of idiocy.” She shuddered slightly, as though the mere thought of that amount of physical exercise for no real gain gave her cause to recoil. 

“Jobs?” He shook his head, midway between irritation and amusement. Bobbi threw him a half-shrug as if to say what else did you expect?

Barton grinned, despite himself, and hunkered down next to her, Bobbi rolled her head back against the wall and drew her knees closer to her body as she did so. In companionable silence, they both stared out at the few remaining recruits still practicing in the gymnasium. Bobby stifled a yawn. 

“So your friend is …” She broke off, and eyeballed him, slightly unsure how open she could be with him. In regards to Romanoff, at least. Bobbi was ever so mildly disconcerted at how much of herself she had really shared with Barton already. First rule was always – had to be – to keep yourself free of others. 

“Disciplined?”

“Intense?” She cut in almost before he’d finished speaking. “She could make a killing on those army boot camps for fat people, you know. Some people really enjoy paying to be yelled at and pushed beyond their wildest dreams.” She glanced at him over her right shoulder and he was struck by the almost coquettish manner in which she did it. He was certain ¬– almost certain ¬– that she had no idea she’d done it. He pushed the thought away. Not needed, Barton. 

“I’ll make sure to let her know.” He smiled at the idea of Natasha dressed as a drill sergeant, shouting at overweight Americans drenched in sweat and clad in designer running gear. There was nothing, he was sure, she’d find more irritating. Rogers on the other hand would make a perfect personal trainer. 

“Let who know what?”

Bobbi started slightly at the voice and Barton supressed a smile. It was good to know that there existed someone – even if it was only one person, even if it were not him – of whom the girl was wary. Natasha stood in front of them, arms crossed. Her red hair was swept to the side and as always she wore her combats and tank top as though they were an afterthought to the whole deal. He’d never met anyone like Nat and would likely never again. One of a kind. 

Bobbi glanced at him from the corner of her eye and shook her head slightly. Barton bit back a laugh. “Nothing, Tasha. Just ruminating on possible future activities.” 

Nat gave him a somewhat sceptical look, then directed her gaze at Bobbi. “Alright, Mockingbird. You can go wash up now.”

Bobbi exhaled and then, despite her tired state, managed to bring herself to her feet with all the grace usually associated with prima ballerinas. She offered Romanoff a lazy salute as she drew to the full extent of her 5’2” height. Natasha dismissed the younger girl with a nod to the left and Bobbi side-stepped the agent carefully before striding across the hall. 

Romanoff turned on her heel and watched Bobbi exit the gym before crossing her ankles and dropping to the floor beside Barton. “What are you trying to do to me?” She asked, not looking at him. He did not answer, but turned his head to her questioningly. “We need warriors, Clint. People who can fend for themselves and get the job done.” The words tumbled out of her, frustrated and touched with anger. 

“You don’t think she’s worthwhile?” He asked quietly, eyes on the redhead beside him. 

She exhaled sharply, breath whistling through her teeth as she did so. “She’s a gymnast, Clint.” She turned to him full on, blue eyes boring into his own. “A circus-trained gymnast. I’ll grant you she must be decent at breaking and entering - and by Christ is she double-jointed - but how could she possible defend herself or others the way we’d need her to?” 

He stared back at her, solemnly. “Fury thinks we need her skills.” He replied. “She’s got-“ he paused, just briefly, “She’s got interesting ideas about this Asgard thing. So she can’t work a gun or roundhouse someone. Yet.” He paused, meaningfully. “We all learned, right?” Romanoff regarded him silently. “And we’re supposed to be a team, this whole Avengers deal. Maybe each one doesn’t have to be the full package the way we were taught to be. Maybe it’s enough that individually we have areas of expertise.” He looked at her, willing her to respond favourably. 

Romanoff gazed at him for an uncomfortable amount of time. They’d always been pretty aligned; it would be too alien if she disagreed fervently on this. Barton hoped she wouldn’t delve too deep on his commitment to this one, he wasn’t entirely sure he could really explain it himself. She sucked a breath in before speaking. 

“You are a romantic, Clint.” She said, laughter colouring her words as she spoke. 

He laughed, a short sharp bark into the emptying hall. “At least it’s not a hopeless romantic this time, huh?”

“I hope it all works out the way you want it to.” 

“Fury wanted her pulled in, Tash. “ He protested.   
“Fury wanted her ass out of S.H.I.E.L.D. last week, Clint, and you damn well know it.” She countered. “No one asked you to trace her apartment and bring her in.” She paused. “Actually, I believe there might have been specific instructions against that.”

“Have a little faith.” He winked at her. 

“That’s what you said about Budapest.” She remarked drily. 

“You enjoyed it.” He smirked. 

Romanoff did not answer but instead unfolded herself gracefully, not unlike Bobbi. Once standing she extended one hand down to him, which he took and hauled himself upwards with considerably less elegance. Hey, it wasn’t his job to be pretty. 

“Dinner?” He suggested. 

“Drinks.” She replied flatly.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I don't think anyone is really reading this but it's a long-running story in my head that got me into writing properly so I'll stick with it for myself more than anything else.

“Get to bed, Barton.” 

Romanoff leaned against the doorframe to her rooms and regarded her long-term partner, who was swaying slightly in front of her. His shirt collar askew, top three buttons open, he smiled at her with a somewhat glazed look. She laughed. 

“You’ve had too much,” she protested as he enveloped her in a one armed hug, crushing her against his chest. “Way too much.” She mumbled against his shirt, breathing in deeply the scent of aftershave and Clint’s own musky smell. Romanoff put her palms flat against him and pushed back lightly, his broad arm slipping to her waist as she did so. 

“Tasha.” Clint mumbled, dropping his head to her shoulder and his warm lips brushing against the bare skin of her neck as he spoke. She shivered at the touch and shifted, his head raising as she moved. 

“Tasha what?” She answered, teasingly, her chin tipped up towards his serious blue eyes. He tangled a finger in a red-hued curl and sighed heavily before answering. 

“You are a bad influence.” He said, sternly. 

“You’re a poor drunk.” She slipped out from under his arm and pushed him backwards, stepping over the threshold to her rooms, turning her back to him as she did so. She paused, and turned back to Barton with narrowed eyes. “Lay off the vodka next time. You’re not Russian, stop expecting to keep up with one.” She winked at him before closing the door smartly. 

Barton ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly and figured it would probably be best to head to his own quarters. He took off through the maze of corridors that made up the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. 

He was passing the workout room when he heard repeated thuds. He paused for a moment, listening intently. This time, he could have sworn he heard accompanying grunts. The agent re-traced his steps and ducked his head into the room. The lights were all off, but the moon, unusually full, lit the small workout space enough. The shine hit the blinds and illuminated the scene in front of him. 

He could see a slight figure, dressed in loose gym trousers and a cut off t-shirt, repeatedly striking the punch-bag. Barton grinned to himself as he noticed the Stark Industries emblem on the shirt, which he was fairly sure had previously been full-size before someone had taken to it with scissors. 

He leaned against the doorframe and observed. 

Bobbi grunted as she made contact again with the taped cross she’d made on the bag, slightly above her own head height. Dropping back she bent at the waist, hands clasping her thighs as she panted. She could feel the sweat running down her back, under the line of the short t-shirt she wore, across bare skin and under the waist band of her sweat pants. 

She sucked in a breath, drew herself to her full height and whipped her left leg up and across her body towards the bag, making contact just right of the cross. She swore bluntly and readied herself to try again.

This time, she slowed it down. 

Balancing on her left leg, she raised her right deliberately and contracted it towards her chest. She allowed her body to lean to the left and, breath coming hard as she concentrated, drew herself up as she turned. Poised now on tiptoe she extended her right leg towards the bag, controlled and steady. Just as she came close to the bag Bobbi allowed her right foot to flip outwards, suddenly with speed and power. Smack. The bridge of her foot slammed into the punch-bag and rocked it back sharply. 

“Bobbi?”

She spun towards the door, hands coming up in front of her defensively. She relaxed only marginally when she realised it was Barton. He winked lazily at her and moved forwards across the wooden floorboards, moonlight streaming through the window and highlighting his features. 

“What’s he doing?” Fury thought, as he leaned closer to the monitors. He wasn’t exactly in the habit of checking up on his staff late at night, but it was certainly becoming a more frequent occurrence than it had been previously. Before the heavens opened, monsters came to Earth and took over the hearts and minds of his best allies; that was. 

And then there was the Stark factor. 

“What are you doing?” He asked, coming to a halt in front of her. 

“What do you think?” Bobbi retorted, dropping her head to one side and running a hand through her loose curls before gesturing towards the bag as she spoke. 

“Alright, Miss Smarty Pants.” Barton inclined his body towards her, shirt open and exposing his chest. Bobbi, who fleetingly allowed herself to notice his tanned musculature, leaned up towards Barton’s face and inhaled deeply. 

“You’re drunk.” She said, somewhat incredulous. She wasn’t sure whether she could picture him at a bar, it seemed too human for the agent. She’d taken to considering the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents as robots, especially since meeting Agent Romanoff. If anyone should be more machine than person, it would have to be her. 

“Only a little.” He said, smiling. He stared into her face, eyes scanning, as though reading a book. He took in her sweaty clothes and the way her chest heaved as she waited for him to speak. She’d been here some time already. “You’re practicing?” He questioned. 

Bobbi looked back at the bag, which was still swinging slightly, and then to Barton who gazed at her. “I’m not a fan of other people being better than me.” She shrugged and looked up at him from lowered lashes. A grin crept across his rugged features. 

“You want to practice on something that’ll fight back?” 

Bobbi laughed, caught off guard. “You mean you?” She asked, eyes taking in the man before her who stood with chest part-bared and in dress trousers. Hardly fighting material, she thought. “As in, you, right this minute?” 

“Hey, my drunk is still gonna be better than your sober, sweetheart.” Barton opened his arms as he spoke, still grinning at her, and Bobbi fought a smile. He seemed worlds away from the serious, leather-clad agent who had slapped handcuffs on her in the Smithsonian. 

Fury sucked in a breath and leaned even closer. The CCTV system didn’t have sound, so he couldn’t understand the full thrust of the conversation but he could see Barton swaying some. Out with Romanoff again, he thought to himself. A brother will never learn if that lesson is delivered by a pretty face. He wondered what lesson the Mockingbird might deliver up to his Hawk this evening. 

“Is that so?” She teased, taking a step closer, mind unwittingly flipping back to their first meeting as she moved. He moved forward instantly and brought her arm up and behind her back, flipping her around and bringing her against his chest, one arm across her breasts and hand gripping her shoulder. Her arm twisted uncomfortably behind her by Barton, who leaned into her body.

“Yeah. That’s so.” He panted into her ear, hot air warming her neck and his exhaled breath moving strands of her hair as he spoke. Bobbi pushed against his arm hesitantly and found that it wasn’t budging. He pulled her arm up behind her, making it uncomfortable but not completely painful. Yet. 

She inhaled slowly and relaxed herself against him. She could feel that his muscles were still tensed as his body pressed into her back. His muscular arm was warm against the exposed skin of her stomach and he’d bunched up the material of her shirt as he held her, revealing her sports bra. Bobbi let her head fall back against Barton’s shoulder, exposing her throat, and considered her options. 

“Give in?” His voice was low and rumbled against her neck. 

“Nope.” With that, she bent forward abruptly, hips neatly tucked just under his, and allowed the too-sudden shift in centre of gravity - along with his not inconsiderable muscle mass - to pitch him over her shoulder. He landed on the matted floor with a grunt but was still for only the barest moment. 

His legs flashed out and swept her own away. She landed with a thud on top of him, only just having the time and presence of mind to throw her hands out in front of her to save herself from completely smashing into Barton. Clint stared up at the girl whose face was just inches from his own, her dark curls tumbling around her shoulders and onto his own. 

“Give in?” She panted, eyes shining in the dark, picked out only by the light of the moon still streaming through the blinds. He could feel her breasts dip against him as she breathed.

“Nope.” Barton grabbed her upper arms, slid one leg around hers and flipped them both over, letting his weight press her into the mat. Bobbi’s t-shirt caught between her chest and his, her lean stomach now almost completely exposed and pressed firmly against his body. She arched her back, pushing up against Barton’s solid weight but found no movement. 

Fury reached out for his coffee mug without evening glancing for it. His eyes were glued to the screen in front of him. He had a bad feeling that Barton was in deeper than the agent had ever considered. 

“Okay, you win.” Bobbi huffed. Barton grinned and leaned back into a sitting position, his legs folded and either side of her hips. The girl pushed herself upwards also, arms extended behind her. She let her head fall back as she stretched her back, muscles tensing. She rolled her head from one side to the other and as she did so, Barton noticed a large bruise across her collarbone, purple and angry. 

Forgetting himself, he leaned forward, brushing it lightly with one hand. Bobbi whipped her head forward at the gesture, body tensed as he made contact. He found himself staring into wide blue eyes. He paused, two fingers still against her skin. All he could hear was the slow tick of the clock and his own blood thrumming in his eardrums. 

“I, uh,” The words stumbled from his mouth. “I have cream for that.” Bobbi remained silent, but stared back at him. “Arnica. It’s uh, it’s good for bruises. Brings ‘em right out.” Barton cleared his throat and dropped his hand from her collarbone, fingertips brushing past her breast in his haste. 

“I can give it to you. If you want me to, I mean. The arnica.”

“The arnica.” Bobbi repeated slowly, gazing back at him. 

“Yeah.” Barton shifted slightly. “The arnica.” He answered, left hand rubbing the back of his neck as he spoke, eyes dropping from the girl beneath him to the floor. Bobbi pushed herself up further until her chest was very nearly pressed against Barton. He turned his gaze back to her, Bobbi’s face inches from his own. He breathed in as she breathed out. The clock ticked. 

“You should probably give it to me,” Bobbi breathed out, her body pushing lightly against his as she spoke. Barton’s eyebrows creased as he regarded her in the moonlight, gaze dropping to her lips as they moved. The memory of Bobbi with eyes blazing and towel clutched to her chest, water droplets clinging to her bare shoulders, flashed through his mind and he swallowed hard. This, he thought, is what comes of drinking. You lose complete control of a situation. 

“Oh, brother, no.” Fury murmured as he brought his mug down on the desk, splashing lukewarm coffee across the scattered papers strewn across it. He swore to himself and absentmindedly swiped at the spill, making it significantly worse as he did so. Coffee stains blurred the writing, obscuring the name at the top of the file he’d been most recently reading. With a curse he ripped the top sheet from the pile and shook furiously, drops of coffee splattering the floor. He drew the paper to his face and sighed heavily. A Doctor ‘Stefan Strong’ would have to wait. 

Bobbi laughed, the sound cutting through his thoughts like a knife through butter and he was briefly grateful for that. “I’ve got bruises all over from your girlfriend.” She said, leaning back and rubbing the bruise on her collarbone with a grimace. “I could really do with something to help get rid of them.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Barton answered the unspoken question. He wasn’t even sure if there was any level on which she could have meant it as a question, but the words tumbled out of his mouth before he’d had a chance to really consider why he was saying them at all. It’s the drink, Barton. Learn from this moment, damn it. 

The girl looked up at him, her dark hair falling around her small face and framing blue eyes he thought he might one day lose himself in trying to understand what she was thinking. Barton became uncomfortably aware that his thighs were still pinning her to the floor. He shifted to one side and rolled off her in one smooth movement onto his back. 

Bobbi glanced at him, then brought her legs forward until they were trained over her head, bent double at the waist as she lay on the floor. Her bare feet flexed as she pointed dainty toes past her forehead. She inhaled sharply then flipped them back suddenly, bare feet hitting the hardwood floor and bringing herself to crab position.

Barton let out a low whistle as he watched her, pulling himself into a sitting position as he did so. “You really are flexible.” He hugged his arms around his knees as he looked her over. 

Bobbi arched an eyebrow at him from her upside down vantage point. “You have no idea.” She said lazily, and brought herself up so she was almost bent double. Her shirt fell to her neck, black sports bra now completely exposed. Barton swallowed, eyes still on her. 

She rested into the position, enjoying the stretch, then brought her legs up and over her head. For a moment she let herself pause, resting her whole weight on her hands, toes pointing to the ceiling. Then she flipped, bringing her feet down and twisting herself into a standing position. Bobbi threw her arms into a Y-shape, aping a gymnastic finish pose.

“Ta-da.” She said, then slipped into a low bow, graceful as always. Barton couldn’t help himself but smile at her motion. She wasn’t that much younger than Natasha but seemed to have less care for the world than the Black Widow probably ever could. It was … refreshing.

Fury watched, still sipping his now near-cold coffee, more out of habit than any real desire for it. The kid was incredibly flexible and he no longer doubted the proposed scheme for Asgard. Not based on her flexibility to fit into small spaces, at any rate. Her character was a different matter. 

“Where’s my applause, hmmm?” Bobbi threw herself into a heap next to Barton, who had been unable to rip his gaze away from the girl.

“Is that all you perform for?” He asked, jokingly, trying to ignore the brush of her cool bare skin briefly against his as she settled herself into a lotus pose and stretched her arms skywards. She knotted her hands together and reached upwards before bending forwards and responding. 

“I worked in a circus, Agent Barton.” She drew her knees to her chest, subconsciously mirroring the man next to her as she answered. “In Hungary. It wasn’t for the pay, I can assure you.” Bobbi laughed. He caught her eye and laughed as well. 

“Why did you come back here? To S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Because you asked me to, sweetheart.” Her eyelashes fluttered at him as she answered him, the joke of it dancing in her face. 

“Really.”

“You don’t think I’d do something because you asked me?” Suddenly those blue eyes seemed to be looking at him seriously for once and he didn’t really know what to do with that. She had dropped her head to one side and stared back at him. Barton bit his lip before answering the girl. 

“Why did you come back?” His voice was low, felt close in the darkened room, somehow suddenly intimate and this time it was Bobbi who shivered to her soul as his bare arm brushed against her own. 

“Does it matter?” She shot back at him, using bravado to cover the tremble of her skin moments before. 

Barton paused before he answered. When he did, his serious eyes bored into her inquisitive ones. “Not to Fury, not really. As long as you do what you say you’ll do.”

“But it matters to you.” Bobbi responded to his quiet words, her eyes wide and the words not a question but a statement of fact. “Doesn’t it?” He nodded slowly. “Why? Why does it matter?”

“I thought I was asking the questions.” Bobbi raised an eyebrow and did not respond. He chuckled. “Okay. It matters to me because-“ He paused. “Because I believe in you.”

Bobbi stared at him. “You do what in me?”

“I believe in you. I saw your file, I see your potential, I see you, okay? Not some cocky kid who’s probably too good at what she does for her own benefit but the girl in front of me who could, if she tries, take this opportunity and do something right in her life. For once.”

Bobbi continued to stare. Half of her – possibly most of her – wanted to make some smart-aleck response, remove the tension from the situation. But a small, traitorous, part of her wanted the moment to last for a lifetime. Wanted to see the look in his eyes always as he gazed at her. 

Moments passed and Bobbi realised that she needed to say something. Anything. 

“I’m not the first person you’ve made that speech to, am I?”

“No, you’re not.”

“To Romanoff?”

“Once.” He admitted. “But before that, I said it to myself.” 

He watched the girl, blue eyes shining in the moonlight and still fixed upon him. Barton wasn’t sure if she was aware that she was showing it, but the look on her face was the most exposed and open he had ever seen it. The cockiness was completely gone, affirming to him – something he’d been confident in, anyway – that it was only ever a façade built to keep people out. He smiled at her gently and was rewarded with a small one in return. 

His watch beeped in the darkness. 

“Okay, kid, it’s uh – it’s past my bedtime.” He joked, scrambling to his feet. The gentlemanly side of him stretched a hand out to the girl, who clearly needed no support in getting to her own feet. He managed then, more or less, to conceal his surprise when a small hand slipped into his. All too quickly it was gone and Bobbi’s dark curls bounced next to his shoulder as she rocked on the balls of her feet. 

“I’ll walk you back to your quarters?” Barton offered, knowing full well Bobbi would have been able to find her way back blindfolded and walking backwards. She nodded silently and fell into step beside him. Neither spoke the short journey. 

Barton rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly as the girl looked up at him. He was reminded of his earlier goodnight with Tasha at her door, and how different the two situations were. Thoughts of tangling a finger in Bobbi’s curls flashed through his mind almost too quickly for him to process. He cleared his throat and shook his head slightly.   
“Right, well. Goodnight, sweetheart.” He said gruffly, and took a step back. Bobbi threw him a small smile and turned the door handle, moving her back to him. Barton paused a beat, then turned away from her to leave. 

“Agent Barton?” and then, quite softly, almost too low for him to be sure he’d heard it at all, “Clint?” He turned on his heel, and suddenly her small body was pressed against his which was sort of more than enough as it was but beyond that, beyond that, light lips ghosted fleetingly over his own, warm and slightly wet. So quick and so soft was it that he didn’t have time to close his astonished eyes. She pulled back and he fumbled to grasp at her waist with his fingers as she did so, to bring her back closer to him. 

Bobbi slipped from his arms and the door shut firmly Barton’s face, leaving him somewhat confused. He shook his head. What the hell just happened? He ran his finger across his lips, which still tingled from the all too brief contact. Drinking, man. It doesn’t do you right. 

On the other side of the door, back pushed against the hard surface, Bobbi slid to her knees with her face in her hands, sobbing.


End file.
